Lolitas Dark Portal

Related article: Date: Wed, 5 Mar 2003 20:39:42 -0800 From: Tim
Stillman Subject: 15Autumn "15Autumn" by Timothy StillmanIt is
autumn. The weather is cooling down. The sky is still blue, but it
is somehow a friendlier kind of blue. And the world seems suffused
with a golden glow. The wind is in its first hint of briskness.
Everything seems cleaner when autumn starts its summer cleansing.
The world seems friendlier, I suppose, because it is a season of
corduroy and somberness, and I am a somber child. I am 15. I have,
save as an infant and young child, when my mom had to bathe me and
dress me and train me, not been touched by another human being.I
have not been held or had an arm around me in friendship. I have
not had a friend, save my bulldog Ricky who loves me and who I love
beyond words. I am what is known as a good boy. I do not run across
other persons' lawns, I do not get in fights, I do not curse. The
word "goddam" floated through my head the middle of summer and I
knew I would go to hell for it. I am just now getting over it and
have not apologized to God for a little while. He doesn't seem
particularly to care one way or the other, but it still bothers
me.I go to church, sometimes willingly, I am in the school band,
unwillingly, I have been a Cub Scout and am now a Boy Scout, both
very unwillingly. I am a chronic masturbator. I think of it all the
time. I was born with one testicle, the left one, not descended. It
was not destined to descend until I was 14. Mom took me on regular
visits to the doctor, a constant smoker, even when examining me,
his face lined with huge creases and furrows, a man who frowned
constantly and whose eyes seemed always half closed, because the
smoke hurt them. And he, my first pronouncer of judgment,
incessantly wreathed with blue fog, like I imagine the devil would
look, with leathery dark skin as well, and a cigarette left always
smoldering in his ash tray while he was touching me, then picked up
and puffed on again when he was through with me. He seems efficient
and passably kind. It is embarrassing his hands feeling my groin
looking at me down there I write this sentence in a rush to get it
down and hopefully to the back of my mind. The office smells of
starch, cigarettes, whiteness, the end of the road, alcohol,
medicine, fear, sickness, stuffy cotton wadded in every pore of
air. And there is the creak this way and that of the chair on
rollers he sits on to examine me.My mom would not let me ride a
bicycle until my testicle descended. The doctor said I could ride a
bike, it will not hurt me, but she insisted it would. Therefore I
have spent my summer days, until last summer, (when the testicle
finally showed its face), sitting in our side yard, watching
children bike past, and me, wishing, wishing. My life has been
spent doing that, wishing. I wish I could stop. After the magic day
of testicle propriety arrived, (you would think I'd remember when,
but I don't, or how I told my mother, or how the doctor did,
important thing, a vital thing, why is Lolitas Dark
Portal it a blank to me?) she bought me a bicycle, and the
man from the MYF taught me to ride. Which involved putting me on my
black Schwinn at the top of the hill and then pushing me down that
hill to the street that went by my house. I went down it propelled
unable to stop and ran over the curb to my yard and hit a tree. I
could have been killed several ways in this. The man thought it was
amusing. I can ride fairly well now. No thanks to him. Thanks only
to embarrassing training wheels and falling off a lot.I am polite,
yes ma'am, no ma'am. I am a solitary child. I have been made to
feel guilty for everything, from reading comic books, to reading
paperbacks, to watching TV, to writing very bad screenplays of my
favorite books. I have decided, most unlike me, not to be guilty
about masturbation, though I am, terribly. I fool myself however. I
masturbate, in summer, three or four times a day. With my testicle
now at home plate, the pain of it is agonizing, when I masturbate.
A searing sharp stabbing pain and waves of feeling like there is a
weight of sand in my groin, pushing down toward gravity, goes
through it for a long time, but I masturbate anyway, even during
the rush of pain. It is God's justice. This I know. For Those Who
Know Best tell me so. In a manner of speaking.I do not think of
having sex with another human being. It does not cross my mind.
This is my private world. I do not know if other boys do it. I will
read about circle jerks later on in my life and wish (here's that
wishing again) I could have been a part of that. But boys who would
like that sexually and not just as another peeing contest would be
drummed out of the group pretty quickly I imagine. This past
summer, one night, our scout leader was called away. Lolitas
Dark Portal We were meeting that night in the basement of the
Methodist church. He said we could go home or play some basketball
if we wanted. I was off in my solitude as always. The boys decided
to play strip poker. I thought they were kidding, I thought
something violent and dangerous was about to happen. I was
petrified. They brought the cards out, sat in a circle, right under
the sanctuary and began playing. By the time Jack had his kerchief
and shirt off, I all but ran for the door and ran all the way home.
They were invading my territory, I guess, they were making fun of
something that was so sacred to me, so solemn, not meant for their
laughter and joking and cursing. Mostly I was just frightened and
have come to these conclusions later on.The first time I
masturbated I was 10 or so. I was taking a bath. My penis got
stiff. It was so small and pink and young and sweet looking. At
fifteen, it no longer looks like that, and I miss it being as it
used to. Just thwong that particular bath night, and there it was.
I approached it most fearfully at first, (is this a part of me?)
somehow knowing already this in itself was wrong. It was like an
alien invader come to say let's have a bit of fun. It almost loomed
in front of my startled little blue eyes. I rubbed a wash rag over
it. It felt enormously good, comforting, warm, exciting, I had
never had such a feeling, I did not want it to go away. I washed it
with soap and washcloth and water and I rubbed it till the good
feeling felt tingly and my entire body felt lit up like a Christmas
tree. My legs bucked. My hand was soapy and fast and I breathed so
quickly. Panting. When I dry came, knowing nothing about any of
this, other than it felt fantastic, my penis started having deep
stabbing pains in it. Though I did it a number of times again with
soap and water through the years, and still do sometimes, the pain
was/is worth it, it made up for me having fun. I never have fun. It
is wrong. And if I forget myself and do, then I am made to pay for
it dearly afterwards.I think about masturbating all day in school,
but cannot get an erection then, though I've later read boys get
erections all the time, I did not, not around other persons,
because I do not like people because they do not like me because I
do not like them, and so forth. I love the feeling of rushing home
from school, being alone in the house, going into the bathroom,
locking the white paint chipped bathroom door, though there is no
need for it, and entering my private sex world. Usually my mom goes
to work before I get home from school, but when she's running late,
I always wait half an hour to do it, because when I started just as
soon as she left, she always came back because she "forgot
something." She loves to catch me in the act. It gives her a chance
to cry. I am more careful now.I love getting naked in front of the
bathroom mirror. I am already six feet tall. I am skinny. I have
dark sparse pubic hair, rather fluffy. I cannot remember when it
started coming in. Just as I cannot remember when I first started
shooting. I think these are important to remember, but it all
blends together. Shyness and fear do not help me remember. I am
circumcised. I do not have chest hair. The hair on my head is cut
short, much shorter than I would like it. In university I will grow
it long and it has been long ever since. In those days to come I
will want to look like David Cassidy, and will pretend that I do. I
will starve myself into almost anorexia to complete my best
semblance of the illusion. To myself at least. Writing this, I will
still remember all the lyrics to the signature song of the
Partridge Family. "I think I love you/so what am I so afraid of?/
I'm afraid that I'm not sure of/a love there is no cure for..." And
a lot of the others as well.I love standing naked and vulnerable
and a child still, with my back to the mirror over the pink vanity
table, Lolitas Dark Portal and looking over my
shoulder at myself in the light airy bathroom with the high windows
the sun comes through brightly in days like this, the autumn days
that are shading their way to leaden skies and colder winds that
light my way so dearly and make me so nostalgic for what is already
here and seemingly already going away. I pretend that I am another
boy looking at me, over his shoulder. I hug myself and touch myself
everywhere, someone has to after all, and pretend another boy is
hugging me. Not a "real" boy because the idea of them runs into my
dichotomy of the real world that I hate, and a land where even the
thought of those of that world cannot enter. I think of boys in
movies and TV shows, the "unreal" boys who are beautiful dreams and
hearts and hands that hold me and never let me go. I wish someone
would touch me. I wish someone would put his arm around my
shoulder. I wish someone would give a damn about what I think about
things. I wish they would pretend to at least. I wish I could stop
wishing.I have a small butt. Somewhat flat. At this time of day,
red marked from all the sitting I do in school on those hard wood
slatted seats. Like my face is sometimes creased by my pillow when
I have an especially heavy sleep on it. I stroke myself, looking
down at myself. I turn round to face the mirror. I kneel. I hide my
hard penis between my thighs and let it bounce back. I look at my
torso closely. I think it is not too bad to look at. I stroke my
body. I hold my arms round myself. I try to make me not me. I mimic
kissing someone and someone kissing me in return. I never ever
expect this to happen in reality to me. I am learning to live with
it. I do not think I would like it if it did. But I want it to
regardless.My penis rises. It sticks straight out. I can drape a
towel over it and it remains rigid. I wish I could show that to
someone. It is pale and it has little wispy veins in it. I love to
make it spring up. To hold it down almost flat against my balls and
then let it thwack upward. I love feeling my little warm hairless
balls that are still tight against me. I love putting my hands all
over my groin, pulling my penis left and right, very happy it is
mine and always will be mine, why did God make such a sinful thing
so fun?, and tickling my fingers up my almost hairless legs. What
would I do without these rituals to see me through? I pull a fuzzy
bathmat from the tub rim, I take a mirror from over the vanity
table, and put it against the wall beside me. I hold the mirror to
me, and starting with my face, let the mirror see all of me a
little at a time. Then I lie on my stomach on the rug and rub
delicately my hard on on the rug. I get turned on by seeing my
naked body doing this. I've begun to masturbate this way because my
mom says I will give myself cancer rubbing it with my hand. I do
not know if she means on my penis or my hand or both. Seeing my
body swaying up from and onto the rug excites me tremendously. I
examine from the side view all of me carefully. I pat my hips and
wiggle them. My hard on tight against my belly when I rise up, my
balls hanging down a bit, and then flattened to the rug, penis
feeling deliciously sexy as the fuzzy rug takes it and my tummy
when I go down. I hold to invisibility. I give it a name.In the
movie, years later, "The Cement Garden," the incredibly good
looking boy is also a chronic masturbator, and is told by his mom
that every time he does that filthy thing, so many pints of blood,
are used up, that the body had to manufacture more of it, which
could lead to his killing himself that way. But he winds up fucking
his sister so for a tiny little while things are okay for him.
Forget the police car outside with its bright lights going round
and round on them on the bed.I love to pretend there is vaguely
someone under me as I masturbate. I think vaguely of another boy's
penis, though I've never seen one in person, penis I mean, because
in the showers in gym or at the muny pool, I never allow myself,
get dressed fast, get undressed fast, get dressed again, and then
get the hell out of there with as much tunnel vision as I can
muster. I do not know I am miming fucking here in the cool
darkening layer of light. I would not have done it that way if I
had. I was still trying to be a good boy. Why rubbing my penis
against the rug would not give me cancer I never thought of.The
bathroom mat feel to me is like being a baby on a soft blanket.
Crooned to. Far away lullaby. Sad songs. I feel so good naked. My
flat butt in the air as I go up and down, just fucking away--man,
that devil just gets in any way he can, doesn't he? I pretend I am
teaching a boy how to masturbate. This is all so nebulous with me.
I am pretending that he is fascinated by the lessons. I do not
touch him. He does not touch me. This is how it is with me. I do
not picture a boy actually, not even an "unreal boy" exactly. I
picture a concept of one far away from me, because that makes the
guilt less. For some time I have been masturbating just for the act
of it, just for the good feeling of it. Like the indescribably
beautiful blonde boy I would see later on in "You Are Not Alone"
who masturbates in bed on his stomach, a few thrusts, then his
mouth goes "ah" with pleasure and he is comfortably within himself
and needs, for a time, no one else, and falls to dreams, not
knowing he himself is a dream.I take time to lie on my back.
Sometimes I put baby powder on my chest and my groin and my butt,
because I like the smell of the powder. I play with my tits. I
pinch them. I run my hands down my abdomen and I feel my cock which
is the average size Lolitas Dark Portal and will
get no larger. I love how it lies on my abdomen like a little
marble monument. I love feeling my balls. I try to make my left
ball by force of will not hurt when I am through, though I know it
will. I keep thinking my penis and balls are not mine. That someone
will take them away from me soon. God, maybe. It will continue,
that left testicle, to hurt, until I am 17 or so. I think now it
did this often because I always held the cum inside because if I
did not cum then it did not count as masturbation and so I was free
of sin. But the guilt was the same. I spilled some a few times. It
stained the bath mat. I was unable to scrub it away. My mom cried
big time over that when she took the mat washing day. She made me
promise never ever to do that again. I promised. But even a good
boy like me could not keep that one. I tried though. I honestly
did. I absolutely despise the label of good boy. It's mean and
cruel and the worst thing you can make a person be. While everybody
else is seemingly having such a good time.I have no idea, but I
suppose I could have damaged myself holding in the cum. There is a
boy across the street who visits his grandparents here every July.
I am in love with him. I try to imagine him naked. I try to imagine
having sex with him. I saw him one day walking down the street,
from my attic window, the attic is my favorite place to hide, and I
took off my clothes and tried to make love to him, with that image,
Lolitas Dark Portal but could not even get hard. This makes
me feel good and bad. Like telling him he wasn't so much after all.
Love is a curious business. I did not know how curious it was about
to become, as they write at the end of chapters that are meant to
be cliffhangers..I feel good and free and sinful Lolitas
Dark Portal (payment to come a little later on) on my back
as I rub my butt on the mat, while I stroke my penis for a time,
this way. I use the first two fingers of my left hand. I barely
touch it. Later on, I decide, I will again use soap and water to
masturbate, regardless of the pain because it makes my penis
slippery and the lather makes it seem somehow more important and
bigger in ways I can't explain.There is the familiar feeling of a
door opening inside my stomach as I came closer and closer to
coming. I look down at myself, looking at my penis about to go off,
and wonder how it can just look so rigid and firm with all the
fireworks going on in there. I feel the tingle in my thighs and
upper body. I feel how it would be to be a beautiful boy and how
grand it would be to look in the mirror and find not my frightened
almost immobile most assuredly unsmiling face but a pretty or
handsome one staring back at me, happy to be. The river takes me. I
look at my face, tense, eyes wide, mouth open, and pull hard on my
penis with my left hand. I am a lefty though a teacher tried to fix
that and failed. Which makes my class room work difficult, because
all school desks are made for right handed kids.When I was little,
I liked to sit on the couch at night and watch TV and masturbate. I
would wear my pajamas and my robe, and I would play with my penis,
rub it against the flannel or cotton material, take it hard out of
the opening of my briefs and my pajama bottoms. To be out there in
the living room. It seemed so wrong and wonderful. When I first
discovered this wondrous thing I could do to myself, I was suffused
with warmth, the first time in my life. I could give myself
pleasure. And how amazing that is. Once, I was watching a Western
on TV. There was a scene of Indians in loin cloths, dancing round a
campfire. I went to the set, got flat on the floor, and looked up
at the screen, trying to see under the loin cloths. I remember
being very disappointed I could not.I spread my legs as my penis
gets harder and harder and I open my eyes and look at the dingy
plaster ceiling. I feel like my whole body is quivery with
anticipation of life, minnow lights dart between my closed eyelids,
my breath is hard and fast. As though my body has been through a
long day at school and is happy now and grateful I am here, that I
am pleasuring it. I think of none of me as me. It holds me to
itself as a visitor. I rub my chest and my pinch my tits (titty
twister!) and with my right hand, my very hated right hand that
could not be normal, I rub my balls softly, especially the left
one. Sometimes at this moment, at the beginning of this epic crest,
I will say in whispers "I love you, Barry. I love you, honest and
true." Because no one has ever said that to me. Not one single
person. Not even has anyone said they liked me. Because no one
does. It would be a lie if they did say that. And the truth is
always good for you. That's what the Pastor says and I keep it in
mind. Mom and teachers say variations of that too. How brave and
sturdy and strong they must be to live in truth and reality all the
time. What is it like to be among them and one of them and to know
just how to handle everything and have these sayings, like chants
to ward off evil, that cover all the questions? I can't begin to
imagine. I am tired of being lonely. I look at my legs, I open and
close them, boy scissors, which are well formed and strong looking.
I watch the muscles catching and letting go. I watch myself in the
side mirror. I watch my hand on my dick which I am fairly proud of
because I don't think it looks so bad, and then the moment, then
the rushing of me in myself as though someone in my body has a
train to catch and is running for it as fast as they possibly can,
and I stream upward like there are doors opening all in side me and
the world of sex and love and comfort and compassion come darting
swooping in, and my penis tries to squirt, and I hold the slit hole
closed and my penis seems to be choking on cum that it gulps back
down, and I love the feeling, and I feel the pain in my left
testicle, my tormentor, my chastiser, I fear God lives in my left
ball, as it begins almost immediately, a lacerating thing that has
started to leave me with a dull throbbing for hours. I have begun
to think of that pain in a sexual way as well.Sometimes I
masturbate before going to MYF or the scout meeting, so the pain is
strong within me and I feel sexy with the dull throb in my ball and
think if these other kids knew that I was having this pain and that
it hurt so much and why it hurt so much, they would be impressed. I
know they would. But now after just almost coming, I begin to weep.
I always weep after I masturbate. It makes me feel good to start up
the stairs to coming. The thing itself is a blessed moment. The
weeping then must always follow. It is not even questioned. Because
I feel lonely then, because I'll always be just me and no one and
nothing else ever. I lie there for fifteen minutes or so usually
and let the sadness out, but there is always a residue of it in me
that stays and stays.At about my junior year in high school, I will
do this: I will come to the house, empty and hollow, both of us, as
usual, I will go to the kitchen and get an extremely dull butcher
knife from the drawer, and I will go into the living room, after
shutting all the window blinds, to the corner of it where my
bulldog slept until he was put to sleep which still tears my heart
out, I miss him so. I will take the bathroom mirror and put it
against the wall by the easy chair. I will take off my clothes. I
will lie on the mustard yellow carpeting, get a hard on, masturbate
with my hand because I no longer care if I get cancer from it. I
still will not let the sperm out though it taps harder and harder
on the door I hold closed, and when I'm through, I do this in haste
and hurry, eager to get to the new part of my ritual which is this:
I will lie naked there, and put the tip of the butcher knife to my
neck, to the artery on the left side, I will be lying on my back,
my shrinking bobbing penis feeling good, my left ball beginning to
throb, and I will push the dull bladed knife without a handle into
my neck. I never push hard. I never break the skin. Even if it
could break the skin. It just makes me sleepy. And usually I sleep
for half an hour or so. When I wake, I put my clothes on, take the
knife to the cutlery drawer, slide it in, close the drawer, put the
mirror back in the bathroom and start on my homework, wanting to
get through in time for a favorite TV program or two. Or a chapter
or two of a book I am not forced to read. Which I consider the real
books. Then bed. I cry myself to sleep. Like always.I will perform
this ritual every week day or thereabouts for the rest of my junior
year at high school and some of my senior year. I have learned that
wanting to die makes me live with more gratitude for it. I've never
read that from anyone else but it holds true for me. It makes me
feel most alive. And of course that is another abnormality of my
vast library of abnormalities. They should call me Anomaly, I
think. I will lie in my bed, while a couple of lonely whistle
trains pass Lolitas Dark Portal by a few blocks away in the
late night. Hearing them, asleep or awake, they make me feel
better.It is however not that time yet. I am 15. I am finished
masturbating. I do not know other words for it. Masturbation sounds
like a clinical curse. I am comfortable with it because it sounds
sexy to me as well as something you can look up in a dictionary
which gives it a bit of credibility. I am a voracious reader
already. I am in the process of finishing "The Carpetbaggers" by
Harold Robbins. There are some incredibly sexy passages in it. A
girl masturbates a boy and holds a handkerchief out to catch the
cum. A little while from now Lolitas Dark Portal I
will read "The Hand Reared Boy" by--as they say-- respected--
science fiction writer Brian Aldiss. It will be the hottest book I
have read. It is all about sex. It is about especially a young boy
being seduced by his lovely young aunt. There's even a "Maginot
Line" of jerking off at the boy's boarding school that is so
massively hot. When I read of Maginot Lines in school history
books, that passage of boys jerking off comes to me. Now that kind
of war would be really worth participating in. I recommend most
strongly it to our glorious leaders.Hand Reared means jerking off,
by the way, in that usual stuffy way British have of saying things
that somehow makes them always seem filthier. There are also some
novels I read now about another young man and his young aunt and
her initiating him. I especially love the title of one of
them--"The Trembling of a Leaf." I imagine myself both the woman
and the boy. This does not confuse me. I do not know that I should
be confused.I am sporadically getting a little braver about reading
books my mom does not know about. But I've a long way to go. To
this day I never read anything without feeling guilty about it.On
my 16th birthday, my mom will let me buy my first issue of
"Playboy" (I have never so much as looked through one before) and I
will find the pictures of naked women so beautiful and I will
masturbate to them often, imagining me as their son or kid brother,
but I also will like the stories and articles a great deal, so when
someone makes a joke about some jerk who buys the magazine for the
stories, consider me the one person in the world for who that is
true. It was then a handsome magazine, had a good feel and quality
and look to it. I will read "Octopussy" serialized in it and new
Ray Bradbury stories and Jean Sheppard, it will all be quite
wonderful. In the December of my senior year, I will have a letter
to the editor published in it. The Christmas issue. The very best
one. How odd to see my name and my words in "Playboy." Like I had
actually accomplished something. Even my mom will be a little
confusedly proud of me. It will be so weird reading those
magazines, while my mother does housework around me. It makes us
both nervous as hell. I of course do not look at the pictures until
I'm alone. My letter will make me famous for a day at school. For a
day I will not be invisible. For I am, the rest of the time. I am
part of the woodwork. I make advances on no one. I manipulate no
one. I never put the make or the moves on anyone. I just keep
hoping so much someone will some time put the moves on me. I long
for it and boys aren't supposed to long for anything. I will later
on in life know some persons who treat other people terribly, use
them like human accu- jacs, and they get away with it and it seems
a pretty rotten thing to me. Envy in me for them? Yes. Anger in me
at what they will get away with, that somehow or other I will have
to pay for their own goddam sins? Absolutely.At 15, in mid October,
naked and spent, I feel the cool late afternoon wind blowing
through the little spaces uncaulked between the wall and the
windows as the sunlight gets less, in the bathroom. I am not
perspiring like I do all summer long. We do not have air
conditioning. Now, though, I feel chilly. It makes me feel more
naked somehow.This is the first moment then of true Fall. Welcome,
old friend. I've survived just for you. I feel good. I feel my
testicle paining and that too is good. Later on before it gets full
dark I will ride my Schwinn through the neighborhood, up to the
hill a few miles away, lay down carefully the bike in the grass and
go up to the top of the hill already browning, the formerly bright
green grass, and I will look down at the houses, like I would later
read Allison Mackenzie did in Grace Metalious' "Peyton Place"--the
ultimate paper back of its time, one I was not allowed to buy by
mom for obvious reasons. I coveted that Dell paperback. It never
occurred to me to buy it anyway and read it. Like it never occurred
to me to buy "Playboy" without her permission. It was only years
later I finally will find a falling apart copy of the book in the
4th Dell issue, but with the same haunting art work and photos on
the front and back covers as the earlier issues. I treasure it
among my most prized possessions. I will pay fifteen dollars for
it. It will be quite simply worth every penny.Other books she would
not let me read, "The Shrinking Man" by Richard Matheson, because
she found the word "breast" in it, (she scanned them before I was
allowed to get them) but since he was one of my favorite writers, I
insisted, so she let me have it, but put it in her own book case so
I could only read it when I was more "mature." How I was supposed
to get mature this way was never made clear to me. She would also
not let me read the novelization by Irving Schulman of "West Side
Story." She looked through it at the grocery paperback rack, found
the word "breast" (she really had a thing about that word) in it,
so it was off limits till my sixteenth birthday, and even then she
did not want me to read it. It disappointed her that I did. She
gave in and bought me the soundtrack to this film that she saw with
me, the first film that I fell hopelessly in love with, but let me
listen to it only after she had gone to work. Crazy, right?
Yes.After all, the word "breast" cropped up in none of the lyrics.
For the terrible trio in "Summer of '42" the word that kept
cropping up was "foreplay." For me it was "breast." She wouldn't
let me buy the Monarch paperback novelization of my favorite big
monster movie, "Gorgo" because--yep, that damned word "breast"
again--there is no sex at all in the movie, but they added it to
the book to sell more copies. I would eventually spend thirty five
dollars for a mint condition copy of it. Again money well worth it.
I would hold it in my hands and weep, like I had sent myself a
little postcard from my childhood that said "I remember you; be
well."I lie there naked for a few more moments, a distance of time
and place inside me growing. Feeling myself up. Pretending that a
boy concept is feeling me up. Then, later on, pretending an
"unreal" boy for real. And in time, pretending a concept, then an
"unreal," then a real girl is. Pretending they are both doing it at
the same time and they are kissing and I get to watch them do "it,"
whatever it is that boys and girls do in the first place. At this
age, I think I am solely a homosexual, though I am not sure what
that means. I will think this for a long time. Until sexuality
becomes more diffuse to me, more fluid, unboxable, not even the
boxes I put myself in will fit after a time.So in my fifteenth
year, I dress that afternoon. I put on my BVDs slowly and my jeans
and shirt, looking at me covering up my body. A strip show in
reverse. Me putting on the fake/real me again. Last birthday, my
mom bought a movie camera, and one night when I was just getting
out of the bath tub, she barged in the bathroom and started
filming. I put the towel in front of me. I squirmed. I was so
embarrassed, and she showed that damn film to anyone and everyone,
including the boy across the street who came to visit his
grandparents every summer, the boy I loved who laughed at me and
never let me forget it. She showed it to his grandparents and her
friends as well. That makes me laugh now. She could have been
charged today with making kiddy porn.This summer, she had this
medical book on traumas and birth defects and injuries, all
involving children; she worked at the local hospital. One Sunday
afternoon, I was watching TV, trying not to think about school
tomorrow, and she opened the book to a photo of a girl naked, legs
spread, who had been horribly burned on her legs and vagina. She
came to me, and put the picture right up to my face.I ran from her
when I saw the picture she was showing me, she followed, carrying
the book, I ran up the attic stairs, she right behind me, I ran to
the rocker by the windows where I read my comic books and
paperbacks and got into my own dream world. I doubled over. She
came to me and forced with one hand my hands from my eyes. She made
me open them. She made me look up, and she stuck the picture so
close to my eyes the photo was blurred and nonsensical. I thought I
was looking at the picture of a scream.She held my head and I could
not look away. I looked and looked, pretending I could see, until
she was satisfied. Everything was horribly silent grim and still. I
did not look at my mother's face. Not a sound in the world happened
in those moment. And, then, she took the book away, closed it, held
it by her side, and told me to get dressed for my MYF meeting, as
she went back downstairs. I sat trembling after she left and sick
at my stomach and God was suddenly a long way away. I cried into my
hands. I couldn't stop thinking of that terribly hurt little girl
Lolitas Dark Portal and
why such a thing had happened to her. How did it feel? How did it
feel?Mom called up the stairwell for me to get dressed. And I went
downstairs and did as told She never did do anything like that
again. I have no idea why she did it at all. I am glad she is dead
now.I don't want to remember anymore right now. Though I have no
say so in the matter. Leave it as this. It is autumn. I am dressed.
My heavy socks and leather shoes. I put on my jacket. I go out into
the cool afternoon. I get on my black Schwinn. No one else is
around. I feel good and complete and full and tall and with a
momentary right to live on this planet like everyone else. My left
testicle throbs. I kick up the silver kickstand and ride my charger
out of the garage and onto the red pebbled and rocked alley. The
sky is darkening. The wind grows cooler. I shall ride Lolitas Dark
Portal through it as a swimmer through water, as I rode to school
and home today too. The outdoors seems finally like the outdoors
again, instead of the extension of the interior of my house, the
way it feels in summer. There is a hugeness to the outside now, a
safe gray dark metallic hollowness, that seems vast even in the
little distance from my yard to the house across the street where
my summer friend lives in July.Shadows have begun painting the
houses around me. Lights have come on in some of them. Lights that
are somehow meant to welcome the night coming in, instead of
keeping it out. Windows are open. The first cool wind of autumn. So
beloved. I ride to the street, feeling free and into Fall and
winter one more time, against the cool deliverance of wind onto the
street and then turn left by the July home of the boy I love, and
onto the street up the rise to the hill where I will contemplate
the houses below me. Then I will ride home and do my homework. And
the night will be peaceful. My mom will be home at eleven ten that
night, as always, save for her two days off. I will pretend sleep.
I will have turned the TV off by nine, the time set by her. I will
hear her walk to the set, and know she is feeling the top, and god
help me if it is still warm. She will watch TV in the living room.
I have my back turned to the television, as I lie in the doorless
sunroom adjoining it. I mask the sound somehow. Because I know she
would want me to. She will turn on The Tonight Lolitas Dark Portal Show. I have
occasionally heard her laugh at it. It chills me, that laugh,
though it is a very normal seeming one. I will, tonight, have open
one window in my sunroom bedroom and autumn will trickle in, somber
and sweet and full and rich and dark and friendly and kind and
still and deep and welcoming. I will weep Lolitas Dark
Portal soundlessly, before she gets home. Weeping then makes me
feel as if someone else might be there one day. That they will be
sad it was like this for me. And maybe that it was like this for
them as well. And I can be sad for them, too.I will drift off to
sleep. A train will come by at ten thirty or so, with a whistle to
keep me company and I will dream my dreams till blessedly cool
morning, that makes even school endurable, when the sun will rise,
though less in its lion power than the day before, and everything
will all start again. But in a different tone and tempo. Life feels
good to me now. I look forward to the golden autumn apple sunlight,
as I Lolitas Dark
Portal ride my bike on the mirrors of the night streets.
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